


And Yet, Here We Are

by StupidGenius



Series: Our Destiny, Intertwined [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Ciri is sad about her grandparents and Geralt tries his best, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Yennefer, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Making Up, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Or Is he?, POV Alternating, Past Character Death, Post-Season/Series 01, Pre-Slash, hes an elf!, this is the last part of the series tagged pre-slash i swear to yall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22576891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StupidGenius/pseuds/StupidGenius
Summary: She knows the rules of Chaos. They’ve been ingrained in her for decades. Balance. Something cannot be created from nothing. When chaos is used to form something new, it must do so from the remains of something old. And she knew this when she let her chaos build, felt the fire raging inside her and knew that she had not been pulling from anything but herself.She should be dead, but she isn’t.And she suspects that Jaskier has something to do with it.No ordinary bard indeed.---The battle is far from over, but for now, they rest. Geralt tries to piece together the pieces of the story he's been given and wonders how he's ever going to fix this mess he's made.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Our Destiny, Intertwined [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621027
Comments: 39
Kudos: 2766





	And Yet, Here We Are

**Author's Note:**

> This one and the next part are the ones i was most excited to write tbh. I very much wanted to give Jaskier some aspects of bards in d&d 5e AND i love not-human Jaskier. Also there are a few bits of dialogue in here that i thought up like two weeks ago and are the whole reason i'm writing this series lmao.
> 
> This fic contains Geralt, Yennefer, and Jaskier's POVs, bc i haven't written from Yen's yet and they're finally all together.
> 
> Enjoy!

Jaskier is not dead.

Geralt can hear his heartbeat, steady but weak in his chest. His injuries aren’t too severe, and he’s not feverish with infection, which is a good sign. He’s just not awake. Yennefer calls out to him once, twice, and shakes his shoulder lightly, but they get no response.

“Is anyone left alive?” Yennefer asks.

“Foltest and his army set up camp at the fort.”

She hums. “So the bastard finally showed up.” She stands slowly, wincing. “We need to get to a healer.”

He hauls Jaskier up and grits his teeth when the bard’s head lolls limply on his shoulder. Jaskier will be _fine_. What was he even doing at Sodden Hill? He’s never known him to run towards a fight, and with _Yennefer_ of all people? Last he recalls, they hated each other, or at least, felt strong dislike towards one another. And now she’s casting him worried glances as they climb back down to solid ground as if she cares.

He’s missed so much, it seems.

“Geralt!” Ciri greets them when they get back to Roach. “What happened? Who is this?”

“Yennefer.” He gets out. “Ciri.”

They stare at each other. Ciri, like she’s trying to solve a puzzle, and Yennefer as if she’s been given a great gift. Her pinched expression softens, and she smiles.

“You must be the child surprise.” She realizes. Ciri looks to Geralt, hesitant, and her eyes catch on Jaskier’s face.

“That’s the bard from my parties.”

“Get on Roach.” Geralt tells Yennefer. “Hold onto Jaskier. Ciri and I will walk.”

“The camp’s just right over there.”

“We’re not going to back there.” He grunts, hauling Jaskier up after Yennefer gets on. She wraps one arm around his stomach and the other over a part of his chest that isn’t covered in dried blood. He remains still and unconscious throughout, and it makes unease settle hard in Geralt’s chest. “I don’t…trust Foltest.”

“He’s not going to kill us.” Yennefer frowns.

“There are people after me.” Ciri says quietly. Yennefer studies her, lips pursed.

“Alright. Fine. Where are we going then, if not back to the fort?”

“There’s a house in the woods southeast of here. Triss is there.”

“Triss is alive?” Yennefer looks relieved. She tightens her grip in Jaskier.

“Roach knows the way. We won’t be far behind.” He pats his horse affectionately. “Keep them safe.” He tells her softly. She snorts, nodding her head, and takes off. Ciri grips his arm, watching theme leave, face tense. He checks to make sure her cloak is secure and that the hood hides her distinctive hair, and she rewards hm with a small smile.

“So you _weren’t_ all alone.” She notes.

“Hmm.”

“Yennefer’s your friend. And Jaskier.”

“They’re…” he trails off. What are they? Is Yennefer his friend? Is Jaskier still, after everything he said to him? What he’s done?

“Is he going to be okay?”

“I don’t know.” He won’t know anything until Yennefer tells him what happened.

He’ll probably be owing the farmer some coin after this. He doesn’t really have any, but Yennefer might, and she at least trusts that he’ll pay her back somehow. As him and Ciri trudge back to the house, he contemplates their plan.

He’s not sure if Jaskier will want to travel with him, but if he does, he’s probably welcome in Kaer Morhen. If Ciri’s gift is as strong as her mother’s though, he’ll need someone who’d adept with magic and trustworthy to help her. Yennefer is the closest thing he has. She’s probably not the most trustworthy, but he knows she loves children, and she can’t be bought by money. He’s not sure if she’d be willing to go, though, and he’s already not happy with the idea of Ciri being portaled away to Aretuza. He doesn’t trust the brotherhood, especially not Stregebor. Just thinking the name makes his face twist into a snarl.

“You’re worried about them.” Ciri guesses, probably noticing his horrible expression. He tries to tone it down, because he knows what he looks like – he’s tall, and large, and he’s been told his face alone could curdle milk.

“Yes.”

“I think they’ll be okay.” she hums. “Destiny wouldn’t tear us apart now, would it?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” He rumbles, casting a glance at her. “You care a lot about Destiny.”

“I told my grandmother that I loved her, and she told me to find you. That _you_ are my destiny.” Her voice wavers, eyes shining. “Those were her last words to me.”

Oh.

“I’m sorry.” He says gently. She sniffs.

“It’s fine.”

He huffs. “It’s not.” He looks down at her. Her eyes are red rimmed, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “It’s okay to cry.”

He’s seen Jaskier cry many times, over the years. Over small scrapes and cuts, the graves of townspeople he never knew, when Borch died. He cried when Geralt yelled at him, too. Silent, but He could tell.

“I have to be strong.” She straightens out her shoulder. “Im not the lion cub anymore. Everyone else is gone. I’m the Lioness now.” Her free hand turns to a fist. “I have to be strong.” She whispers. Geralt stops their trek.

“Someone once told me that the bravest thing you can do is let yourself feel.” He thinks about what it must have been like for her, alone and on the run for weeks before they found each other. There’s a thin pink scar on her hairline, dirt under nails and a bruise on her knuckles. “You’re already strong. Crying won’t change that.”

_You can always tell me what’s wrong, Geralt. Just talk to me._

Ciri blinks at him and a few tears roll down her cheeks. He brushes them away and she nods, features twisted in determination.

“I am strong.” She repeats.

“Yes.”

“…thank you.” She whispers. He feels the corners of his lips tick up, and picks up their pace once again.

“You’re welcome, princess.”

“It’s _Ciri_.”

* * *

It’s well past nightfall by the time they both make it back to Yurga’s home. Ciri’s feet drag on the ground and her eyelids droop, yawns escaping her every so often. She refuses to be carried the whole time, though by the end of it, Geralt’s basically carrying her anyway. The farmer’s waiting for them when they get back.

“Interestin’ friends you got, Butcher.” He says warily. Geralt winces.

“It’s not for long. I have coin.”

“Keep yer coin.” Yurga shakes his head. “My wife thinks we were destined to find you two.”

Geralt says nothing. The farmer pauses for a moment, considering, before stepping aside to let them in.

The scene is a lot less organized and a lot more cramped than Geralt remembers seeing it last. There’s a cot pushed against the back wall with a body on it, prone, and he recognizes Jaskier’s pale face. Next to him lies a bed roll on the floor, abandoned, with Yennefer’s dress laid over it. The sorceress herself sits at the table, hair wet, in a simple gown that must have come from Zola. Next to her sits Triss, looking better, but still weak. She smiles at them both when they come in – Yennefer frowns.

“Head off to sleep…Fiona.” Geralt tells Ciri, voice low. She looks between them all, a wrinkle in her brow.

“…Okay.” she looks up him, questioning. Wondering what’s next, probably. He doesn’t know what to tell her.

He can’t help but et out a grunt of surprise when she throws herself at him, wrapping her arms tight around his torso. He forces himself to relax, patting her back awkwardly. The hug is quick, and she releases him after a second and all but sprints off to the room they gave her.

“How cute.” Yennefer comments. He eyes her.

“Yen.”

“It’s nice to see you again, Geralt.” Triss says warmly.

He nods.

“What happened?”

“Right down to business then? No ‘glad your alive’? No apology?” Yennefer snaps. He growls.

“Now isn’t the time.”

“Too bad.” She stares at him, violet eyes cold, and runs his hand down his face.

“You want me to say I’m sorry? I’m sorry. I am. It was a mistake to bind you to me, but in the moment, I couldn’t think of anything else. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t fucking kill yourself, I never asked for any feelings.”

“Couldn’t think of anything else except to drag me along with you for the rest of our miserable lives? How thoughtful of you.”

“I think your destinies have been tied together long before you two met.” Triss interrupts. She cocks her head to side. “Maybe try not to be so loud – our hosts and the little princess are asleep.”

“I’m sorry.” Geralt says again. Yennefer lets out a rough breath through her nose, arms crossed.

The silence that follows isn’t exactly comfy.

“Tissaia told me to unleash my chaos. So I did.” Yennefer finally says. “Nilfgaard had already killed too many of us. Fringilla had gotten into my sisters’ heads, corrupted them. Almost killed some of them. We were losing. So I let go. And Jaskier…” She looks off to where he lies in his cot, looking for all the world like a corpse if not for the steady rise and fall of his chest. “He was there.”

“We’d been traveling together. I’m not entirely sure how it happened, but I’ve grown fond of him. I didn’t want to be alone, and he offered to come with me to Nazair. When Vilgefortz called me back to Aretuza, I brought him along – mostly because I knew Tissaia would hate that I brought an outsider. And then we heard about Cintra.” She scowls. “He wouldn’t stay behind, and he’s rather stubborn, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“He’s just a bard! You couldn’t find a way to keep him out of trouble?” he growls, finally giving in and walking over to Jaskier.

“You should know how persistent he is.”

The gash on his chest has been cleaned and bandaged, and the rest of him has been cleaned off as well. There’s a cloth near his head that smells of blood, both new and fresh, and there’s still blood smeared under his nose. It’s still bleeds, then. The lock of white hair is still there. it’s not much, a patch just the width of a gold coin, but it means something. Which, speaking of –

“Oh, for the love of –” Yennefer snaps. He looks over his shoulder to see her twisting a mirror in her hand and combing through her hair with her fingers. “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s…interesting.” Triss tires. Yen twists her hair over one shoulder.

“Look at this. White hair. Like an old woman.”

“Hmm.” Geralt hums.

“I don’t even know how this happened. Dying it is going to take some work.”

He ignores her in favor of watching over Jaskier. He adjusts the thin sheet over his body, pausing when the candlelight reflects off something metal on his chest. He runs his fingers over it gently. It’s a small pendant, simple, and tied around his neck with a black cord. There’s an engraving of a flower on one side, and on the other…something in Elder?

“He’s going to be fine.” Yennefer says softly.

“How do you know?”

He wants to yell. He wants to throw things. That’s the only way he’s known how to deal with these emotions, in the past. But he can’t do that now.

“I know him. He’s stronger than most give him credit for.”

“Since when are you two friends?” He huffs. She pauses, giving him a cold look.

“Since you abandoned him on that mountain.” He turns away with a scowl, guilt heavy in his chest. “Tell me, Geralt, are you stupid? I’d had my doubts when we had our flings, but after that day, I’m beginning to think you really are.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him.” He growls. She laughs, dry and humorless.

“Right. You don’t mean to hurt anyone.” She stands abruptly, chair scraping against the wooden floor. “I’m going to sleep. That bedroll there is for you, unless you feel like running off into the night.” She stops off, towards where Ciri is now, and Geralt sighs.

“If it helps, I think you and the girl are very cute.” Triss offers.

 _Hmm_.

* * *

_Jaskier startles when Yennefer comes through the door, her movements quick and expression grave._

_He knows that she’s being arguing with the Brotherhood about_ something _. Something big is happening, and he knows it’s connected to Nilfgaard. She’d been pretty upset when they had traveled to Nazair, though she wouldn’t say why._

_“Nilfgaard has taken Cintra.” She says after a moment, body tense. Jaskier stands._

_“What?” he breathes. “Cintra, as in –”_

_“It’s fallen. Queen Calanthe is dead, most of her people have been slaughtered. Because of_ fucking _Fringilla” She spits the name like it’s too sour in her mouth, and Jaskier stares, eyes wide._

_He had never liked Calanthe for quite obvious reasons, but if she was gone – that means – Ciri –_

_“Fringilla?”_

_“My sister. Classmate. From my time here at Aretuza.” She paces the room. “The council is full of bloody idiots. Stregebor is insane if he thinks we can sit here and do nothing while Nilfgaard plots to take over the entire fucking continent.” She pauses, crossing her arms over her chest. “You can’t stay here.”_

_“Why not? Where are we going?”_

_“_ We _aren’t going anywhere, Jaskier. I’m going to Sodden Hill to try and hold off the Nilgaardian forces and you are going far, far away from here.” She gives him a hard look. Jaskier grips his lute tight in his hands._

_“I’m coming with you.”_

_“No.”_

_“Yennefer, please!” He begs her. “Let me come. I can help.”_

_“You’re a_ bard _, Jaskier. There is nothing for you to do in battle except die.”_

_Okay, that’s a bit harsh._

_“I’m an elf, capable of manipulating chaos to some extent same as you, which makes me no ordinary bard and you know it. There is magic in song and whatever little of it I can spare, let me use it to help you. I…” He grits his teeth, “surprising as it may be, I had people I cared about in Cintra. I saw what Nilfgaard does. I won’t sit back and do nothing. And I care about you too, you know. Unfortunately.”_

_She studies him for a moment, before sighing._

_“If you die –”_

_“Then that’ll be my own fault, won’t it?”_

* * *

What she hates the most is how she can’t really hate him.

Because he’s right, isn’t he? They’re bound to meet again no matter how hard they try, how far from each other they wander, but there were no feelings there, at first. She supposes they did develop those the way most people do – repeated exposure and aspects in common. But she _wants_ to be mad! She’s spent her whole life being mad at something.

She doesn’t know how else to be.

When she gets up in the morning, the room is empty. She can hear voices, soft and muffled behind the door. She gets up and stretches, and when her eyes catch the tendril of white over her shoulder, and she huffs.

Its in an easily hideable spot, if she decides to just cut it off. The looks aren’t really what’s bothering her. It’s the unknown aspect of it.

She knows the rule of Chaos. They’ve been ingrained in her for decades. Balance. Something cannot be created from nothing. When chaos is used to form something new, it must do so from the remains of something old. And she knew this when she let her chaos build, felt the fire raging inside her and knew that she had not been pulling from anything but herself.

She should be dead, but she isn’t.

And she suspects that Jaskier has something to do with it.

_No ordinary bard indeed._

She finally leaves the room and goes to the main living space. Cirilla is there, poking at a bowl of _something_. Triss is by Jaskier’s side, checking him over now that she has some of her strength back. He’s still unconscious. Geralt comes into the room from the front, wiping his hands on a rag.

“How is he?” She asks, ignoring him. Triss looks over her shoulder.

“Better. He’s healing alright. I think he should be waking up soon.”

“Good.” She sees Triss mess with his necklace, and holds out a hand. “Don’t touch that – it…it was his mother’s.

She can see Geralt pause out of the corner of her eye, thick brows furrowed in confusion, and jaw tense. He doesn’t like not knowing things, she remembers. And yet, there is so much he never notices. She gives him a wide smile and sits on Ciri’s other side.

The child surprise.

 _Geralt’s_ child surprise.

“Hello…Fiona.” She recalls him calling her that yesterday, when the farmer had been in the room. Right now, Zola and her husband aren’t to be seen, but just in case, she’ll use the ridiculous and obviously fake name. “We didn’t get the chance to be properly introduced, yesterday.”

“You’re Yennefer.” She says. Her eyes remind her of the sun shining through blades of grass. It’s enchanting, somewhat eerie, and too recognizable when paired with her wavy white hair. She is also Pavetta’s spitting image. Geralt’s going to have to find a way to hide her. “I saw you in my dream.”

“Oh?”

Ciri says nothing more on the matter. She shovels another spoon full of oatmeal (?) into her mouth with the vaguely disgusted face of a child who’s only ever lived in luxury and is trying very hard to hide it.

“Your hair is very pretty.” Yennefer raises a hand. “May I?”

Ciri shoots an uncertain look in Geralt’s direction. What, is she asking permission? Yennefer glares at him.

He raises a singular brow.

Fuck him.

“Do you know how to braid?” The princess asks her, turning back. Yennefer nods.

“Of course.” She smiles softly. “Would you like something simple, or more…royal?”

She beams.

Something in Yennefer’s heart warms.

She was never really sure if she wanted children. It was the choice that she really wanted. So many of her choices had been taken from her. Who to be, where she went, who she loved. She thought it would be worth it, to give up another. But all it bought her was decades in a court that didn’t listen to her. She’d never been sure if she would be a good mother – she knows she’s harsh at times. Mean and stubborn. And she does live a dangerous life. She’ll never give Geralt the satisfaction of knowing he was right about anything on that mountain.

Here with Ciri, though.

She knows she could do it, if she wanted.

If she’d been given the choice.

“I just want my hair out of the way. Easier to hide.” She settles on. Geralt makes a small, reluctant sound.

“We’re probably going to have to cut it, Ciri.” He says, gentle.

That’s another thing – Geralt is unfortunately good with Ciri, from what she’s seen. He’s soft in ways she doesn’t recognize.

_Maybe she saw it once, that first day, when he brought a dying man to her and demanded he fix it._

“I know.” She frowns. “But not yet, right? We can wait? Until we’re on the road?” She looks at him with her large, pleading eyes, and Yennefer watches in amazement as Geralt’s resolve _visibly_ crumbles before them.

Oh dear.

“We can.” It sounds punched out of him.

Ciri dimples at him.

“Oh, you’re going to have to teach me that trick. He never listens to me.” She laughs.

“You just have to know how to ask.” Ciri says primly. Geralt looks mildly put upon, and Ciri giggles at him. It’s rather nice, she’ll admit, to see these cracks in his otherwise impenetrable armor. She never saw them often.

Except, maybe, while Jaskier was around.

Melitele preserve her, men really _are_ idiots aren’t they?

* * *

_Jaskier doesn’t remember that last time he was in a battle like this._

_He vaguely recalls being cradled in his mother’s arms as shouts came form all sides, and she ran and ran until there was nothing to be heard but their labored breathing and the twigs and leaves crunching under her feet. But now, here at Sodden Hill, he is most_ definitely _in the middle of a battle. And maybe someone else will write ballads about it and turn the fireballs being catapulted at them into beautiful metaphors and the explosives being dropped into pretty lights, but all he can see behind the imprint of light on his eyelids is the way these people fall when they are dead._

_“Yennefer!” He screams, because nothing else would be heard of the sound of crying and fighting around them._

_Nilfgaard is here. It surrounds them, and they_ are _dying._

_Yennefer looks back at him with bright purple eyes and blood on her face and gown, and squares her shoulders._

_“No.” he breathes. She turns away form his and starts to climb the stone in front of them, and he scrambles after her, lute clutched tightly in his hands._

_“Yennefer!” He calls. “Don’t do this.”_

_“You don’t know what I’m doing!” she snaps._

_“I know it’s going to be something stupid, probably life-threatening, definitely dangerous. And I’m not letting you do it alone.”_

_“Fuck off! You don’t need to get hurt any further. Run while you can.” She yells. He grits his teeth and presses his hand against the strings of his lute._

_“I’m not running. I told you im here to help, so let me.”_

_She stares at him for a moment, surprise on her face. And then, uncharacteristically, softly, she leans up and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek._

_“Im sorry about this.” She breathes. He smiles._

_“Just unleash your chaos and let’s see how this all turns out.”_

_Her hands glow hot with fire and Jaskier sings._

* * *

  
In the field, he sees Geralt. He sees Roach in the distance, and Geralt with his hands cupped around his mouth, calling his name with no sound. It’s almost oppressive, the silence. he’s so used to it.

_Jaskier_.

He sees someone else, too. A girl he doesn’t know, with hair like Geralt’s and eyes like emeralds in the moonlight. She shines amidst the dark, her arm outstretched. She sees him, unlike the rest. She doesn’t call to him, doesn’t move. Just points. That’s reassuring, somehow. There’s something familiar about her that he can’t quite place.

He sees a lion in golden armor and a bloodied crown and wonders why it doesn’t frighten him.

_Jaskier_.

“You’re very special, my buttercup.” His mother smiles at him with her sharp teeth and her too-blue eyes. She tickles him mercilessly and he gasps and laughs, because he is a child and doesn’t have a care in the world. He doesn’t see the war around him or the dwindling resources. He doesn’t see the humans coming their way. He sees his parents above him, and he’s happy.

“I cannot wait to see what Destiny has in store for you, sweet boy.”

_JASKIER!_

He gasps awake.

He aches all over, and he feels exhaustion seeped into his bones, but he’s awake and _alive_ , somehow, which is very surprising. He blinks and stares up at an unfamiliar ceiling, and is all at once aware of the fact that he’s not wearing a shirt.

“You’re awake.” A voice – feminine, somewhat familiar – says. A smiling face surrounded by a lovely head of curls comes into view.

“Triss?” He croaks. Oh, dear gods, his voice sounds terrible.

“I wasn’t sure how long it would take. You didn something very dangerous, Jaskier.” She tells him seriously. He tries to sit up and pain pulses in his chest. He groans, falling back.

“ _Oh_ , okay, not trying that again.” he hisses. “Fuck.” He breathes as deeply as he can for a moment, reveling in the fact that he lived.

_He lived._

“You did.” Triss informs him happily.

“Did I say that out loud? Wait, no, don’t answer that, of course I did.” He sighs. “Where are we? Is…is it over?”

Triss takes a moment to come up with her answer.

“For now, I think so.” She helps prop him up against the wall, putting a bedroll and an extra pillow behind him. He looks around, taking note of the cramped space and lived in furniture.

“Who’s house is this?”

“A farmer’s in Riverdell, just off Sodden Hill. I stumbled upon it yesterday.” She starts to peel back the bandages wrapped around his chest. “I’m surprised I’m not having more trouble with this, considering the glamour.” She says, casual as ever. Jaskier tenses, and regrets it’s immediately. He gasps in pain.

“I, um –”

“It’s okay, Jaskier. I can keep a secret.” She smiles softly. It’s not totally reassuring, but it’ll do.

“Where’s Yennefer? She...she made it, didn’t she?” He almost doesn’t dare ask, but he has to know. He’s not sure what he’ll feel if the answer is no.

“She’s outside, arguing with Geralt.”

(If this were a modern teen movie, this is where the record would scratch. But in 1263, there are no records, and Jaskier’s life is not a teen movie.)

“She’s what.”

It is a very peculiar experience, to feel as though you are leaving your body. His heart starts to pound, because he’s sure he heard her wrong. Geralt, here? There’s just no way. Because Geralt left him, and Jaskier hasn’t processed that, really, and he’s supposed to be somewhere in Gulera, last he heard. Now that he thinks about it, he can hear a muffled argument coming from somewhere.

“Geralt’s the one that found you two and brought you here.”

“You’re joking.”

Triss shakes her head, removing the last of his bandages.

“It would be a pretty terrible joke, if I were.”

He stares down at the cut on his chest. It’s stitched together neatly, and it hurts, but the skin’s not inflamed or anything. “You’d be healing too well, if you were human. But this will still scar.”

“How did you know?” he asks quietly.

“I can feel her magic in your necklace. It’s still fresh – she re-enchanted it not but a week ago.” Triss pats his shoulder. “You’re among friends here. Whatever you are can’t be so horrible that they would really care. But I understand the need to hide, until you’re ready.”

“Thank you.” He gets his arms under him again and grits his teeth. “And I would be even more grateful if you helped me up, please?”

“You’re still weak.” She warns. But she helps him up anyway.

The room spins for a moment once he finally gets his feet under him, and he stands there, dizzy and clinging to Triss for support. Once the world stops moving, he gingerly tests out his legs. He’s wobbling, but he can make it on his own if he leans on the wall.

He just has to see.

When he gets to the door, he can hear them.

“…through your thick skull that you can’t just do whatever you want without consequence.” He hears Yennefer’s cold hard tone, followed by Geralt’s tell-tale snarl of frustration.

“Funny thing for you to say.”

“Don’t you _dare_ –”

He pushes open the door.

They stop, and turn to stare at him in eerie unison. Yennefer’s in the plainest of clothes he’s ever seen her in, make up gone and hair tied loosely back. She looks…younger than he expected. And there’s Geralt, next to her, eyes wide. He looks good, which hurts. His hair is longer and his clothes aren’t dirty and he looks…relieved? Happy? He doesn’t really know.

“Jaskier.” Geralt breathes his name like he cares, and Jaskier is hit with a sudden wave of Déjà vu.

_“Jaskier. You’re okay.” Geralt smiles at him, softer than usual, and Jaskier’s heart skips in his chest for reasons that have nothing to do with the djinn._

He swallows thickly.

“Geralt.” He greets.

“For fuck’s sake.” Yennefer snaps. She moves first, going over to him and hesitating, a hand outstretched between them. It drops. “I’m glad you’re alright, you utter imbecile. _Don’t_ do that ever again.”

“Careful, Yen, someone might think you care.” He jokes weakly.

“You wish.” She looks over her shoulder quickly, and then breezes past him into the house. “Geralt and I can continue to scream at each other later. I’ll leave you two alone – _someone_ owes you an apology.”

His cheeks heat.

Geralt just keep staring at him. its unnerving.

He doesn’t know what he wants. Does he want Geralt to beg for his forgiveness? Does he want them to just go back to the way things were before? He isn’t sure. He tried not to think about Geralt too much, after that day. He wants to say he spent months cursing his name and wishing him dead, but maybe his heart is too full of love for that.

“Say something.” He blurts. Geralt blinks.

“I’m sorry.” He sounds rough.

“What for? For telling me to fuck off that day, or for finding me now? Which is it?” Part of him wants to scream at him. He wants to push him, to make him feel the hurt and heartache that Jaskier felt for so long.

“I never meant to hurt you.” Geralt sighs. “I know – it’s not an excuse. But I was…angry. About a lot, that day. I took it out on you because you were there, and that wasn’t fair.” His shoulders droop. “I have never been fair to you.”

Jaskier remains silent.

“I’m sorry I was so harsh to you, all those years we spent together. And…I’d like it if you gave me a second chance to prove myself a worthy companion.”

He laughs wetly, hearing his words said back to him.

It had been a fantasy of his for a while, him and Geralt taking a vacation from all the monster hunting and uncertainty and heading to the coast. He wasn’t stupid enough to think Geralt would return his feelings, but they both could have used a break. He wanted to break down Geralt’s walls, get him to loosen up.

“Worked out what pleases you, have you?” Jaskier asks softly. Geralt gives him a small smile.

“I think I have.”

Finally, Geralt comes closer. He takes Jaskier’s face in his hands, something he’s never done before. For a moment, his hear thunders in his chest, because is Geralt about to –? But, no. he just looks at him, genuine relief in his eyes, and lets go so he can wrap Jaskier up in his arms, careful of his injuries. And Jaskier melts, because he is a love-sick fool and Geralt is warm.

“You’re my best friend, Jaskier.” Geralt rumbles.

He closes his eyes.

“All is not forgiven, but…we’re alright.” He whispers. Geralt’s grip tightens, for just a moment.

“Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope i did Yennefer justice. I love her in the show, but she was the hardest for me to write.
> 
> I debated writing more, like Ciri and Jaskeir finally meeting (again, technically) and Jaskier finding out what happened, but i think this was a good place to cut it off, so that'll be in part 4! And, i swear, Geralt and Jaskier are getting somewhere next installment, because I'm actually frustrated about it and I'm the one writing it.
> 
> Anyway I'm Littleredtheboy on tumblr, come say hi and cry over the Witcher with me.


End file.
